


A Time to Mourn

by annebenedicte



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bullying, F/F, Minor Character Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebenedicte/pseuds/annebenedicte
Summary: A rather dark tale taking place after Elinor's death - some divergences from canon.What happens to Bernie in Holby





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the darkness - this story was inspired by something a patient of mine told me last Friday (not her own story, but something that happened to one of her classmates)   
> I hope you enjoy it nonetheless

Even Jac’s urgent cries had turned silent, and the complete absence of noise in theatre attested to the grim reality. “Time of death: 18.45”. Not even taking the time to thank her team but anything other than a curt nod, Bernie strode out of theatre, thankful for the mask which hid most of her face. She couldn’t break down quite yet – she had to brief Hanssen. Afterwards…

She didn’t have to go to the boss’ office – Henrik Hanssen was waiting in the corridor. As she detailed for him the steps she and her team had taken to save Jasmine and the failure of the operation, she kept her voice devoid of emotion, and luckily he understood and did not detain her. She managed to hold it together long enough to attend the ward meeting where he told the rest of the staff, but as people around her hugged each other for comfort, she remained alone, head bowed, leaning against the wall. She had failed – again.

She forced herself to attend Jasmine’s funeral, although her parents’ distress and the huge photo of the young doctor in the church were almost more than she could bear. Almost, because she still didn’t cry – she couldn’t cry anymore – she had shed too many tears ten years before. And then she went home, to the small studio flat she had rented after the divorce, and shut herself in the bedroom, drawing the curtains. She curled up into a ball on the floor, in a corner of the room, and remained in darkness several hours, until the darkness outside matched the one inside her. Still she couldn’t cry. Crying was for victims, not for perpetrators, and although she wasn’t quite conceited enough to believe that she had killed Jasmine, or even that she could easily had saved her, part of her believed that there had been a chance, and she had missed it.

_Two months before_

The cold sorrow and the icy anger emanating from Serena frightened her. Bernie wanted her to rant and rave, to weep, to sob, to punch pillows – even to hit her if she needed to. But Serena refused to cry, at least in her presence. Actually, she mostly refused her presence, but Bernie didn’t let her. She had taken a few days off too, to support Serena, but she had had to impose herself, for Serena wanted to be alone. Just alone. So Bernie tried to be there for Jason, and to help Serena in the most discreet way possible. She brought her food, which Serena mostly left untouched, preferring to empty the contents of her vast cellar. She tried to offer words of comfort, something which did not come easily to her, and was rebuffed every time. Finally, she went back to work, because at least there she was needed. But she couldn’t sleep at night, and Serena’s words kept turning and turning in her head: “You think you loving me makes a difference? Well guess what? It doesn’t.” And the most hurtful of them: “You don’t understand! You can’t understand – no one can – I lost my daughter.”  Each time Serena had thrown that at her, Bernie had flinched and felt her stomach tighten, as if Serena had hit her with more than words. She nearly told her, but she couldn’t – she had tried, but the words wouldn’t get out. And anyway, surely it wouldn’t have helped? Surely Serena had the right to her own grief?

Work did help, but only partially – she overheard some of the nurses refer to her as “that cold trauma bitch” , and she knew she deserved it. She was civil at best, but mostly just practical and authoritarian. Her close colleagues understood and gave her some slack, but her attitude did not endear her to new arrivals or locums. One day she even reduced a new F1 to tears just by snapping at her. Not that uncommon in a ward full of overtired medics, but also not the way Henrik Hanssen wanted his hospital to be run. It was just Bernie’s luck that he happened to be standing in the corridor when the F1 rushed out of the trauma bay crying. When he strode inside and beckoned to her, Bernie’s spirits sank even lower. He would want to talk…

“Ms Wolfe – I am well aware that the last month has been difficult – if you want more time off, we can manage”

Having refused the cup of tea she was offered, Bernie sat uncomfortably in Hanssen’s office. Pressing her lips together, she nodded her head in refusal. He went on: “I can see that you are still finding things difficult – would you like to tell me about it? People say I’m a good listener.”

Bernie remained silent. There was nothing to talk about. Seeing that Hanssen was looking at her patiently, she felt a terrible urge to just stand up and walk out – out of his office, out of the hospital, out of her own life. But she had done just that the last time, and …So she forced herself to sit ramrod straight and to straight into his eyes, because she needed her job: “I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Hanssen- I am aware that my behaviour lately has been …challenging. I’ll apologise to Dr. Schmidt and I’ll accept any reprimand you deem necessary. But please don’t ask me to take more time off. I …I need to be here.”

Henrik sighed: “Very well. I strongly encourage you to talk to someone though – I can refer you to a grief counsellor, or a psychotherapist…”

Bernie stood up abruptly: “I’ve been through worse – I’m tough, I’ll survive. Excuse me, Mr. Hanssen, I have to get back to my patients.”

Toughness was a very relative notion. That’s what she had told herself during her first days of the Professional Qualified Officer’s course at Sandhurst. The one she had all but fled to, because she knew she would hate it. When she had been approached by the Army at the end of her surgery training, she had politely declined – what they offered as additional training sounded interesting, but she knew she wasn’t cut out for army life. She was basically untidy, not particularly sporty and hated taking orders. Even though the officers training course was only ten weeks, there was no way she would put herself through that.

And she had hated it. The lectures were all right and learning how to use a rifle was too. The rest, however, was mostly hellish! She had been reasonably fit, and in med school, sleepless nights were not uncommon, and so she had learnt to function on little shut-eye time. But getting up at 5.15 am every morning took some getting used to. Especially since the next step was to align in the corridor, with a full bottle of water, in order to yell out the God Save the Queen… Drinking a litre of water with limited toilet facilities afterwards was definitely not something she’d done in med school…

Bernie had hated PE at school, and she did not like it any better at Sandhurst – getting muddy in the hockey field had never appealed to her and getting in full camouflage to ramp in boggy fields did not either. Especially when she had to carry a humongous and heavy rucksack – sixty kilos, nearly her body weight...  What she hated the most was the cleaning and the orders.  Each morning, they had to present themselves, and the room, to the inspection of the Staff Sergeant. The sheets had to be ironed every morning! She had never even thought of ironing a sheet before… For a full inspection, every belonging they had had to be displayed in a particular order in the room, every garment had to be ironed and hung up in a specific order in the wardrobe, the brass buckles and shoes had to be polished till you could see your reflection in it … The first time the Staff Sergeant – a formidable woman – pulled everything she’d just tidying on the floor, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The second and third time, she was furious – and then, she began to accept it would never be perfect enough. Refolding her things time and time again wasn’t punishment enough, anyways…

Strangely enough for a surgeon, Bernie was not particularly coordinated when it came to ordinary life, and in the military, it quickly became her main obstacle. Everyone had to march at Sandhurst – walking was only for civilians. Only she seemed to be more adept at tick-tocking – when arms and legs on the same side of your body move forward together rather than oppositively , and an unforgivable sin – than at marching. This earned her hours and hours of marching by herself in rain or shine, followed by series of press-ups. Two days after her arrival, Bernie was called to the Staff Sergeant’s office – she did not yet know the full routine involved in the simple task of answering a summon, but she could still remember it. You had to march to the door, stop in the doorway, perform a “check, one, two” foot stamp and stand to attention. Then, if that was done correctly, you had to ask permission to answer the summon with a “Leave to enter, Staff Sergeant, please”. She would remember it till her last day, because on that day, she was sent back to the door not less than twelve time to “go back and try again, Wolfe”. And when she’d at last had permission to enter, she had had to stand to attention while the Staff Sergeant chastised her for “only being a civvy in uniform and not being able to do your hair properly, you pathetic excuse for a soldier.” Her hair then was not nearly long enough to be tied up in the required strict bun, not even with the hairnets, hairpins, grips, slides, hair spray and hair wax she’d had to bring. Other later offences, like being caught leaning against the wall or with her hands in her pockets had brought other insults and innumerable press-ups. None of this seemed like an adequate punishment, though, and when her lack of military experience and her natural untidiness did not bring what she considered sufficient abuse, she managed to incur more by refusing to submit. If an officer issued what she considered unfair sanctions to one of her classmate, she couldn’t resist protesting, although she knew that it would bring the same sanctions, doubled, on her own head. She kept herself to herself, and did not seek the company of the others. She looked forward to the end of the training only because afterwards, she would be sent abroad, making it easier for her family to forget her. Marcus’ mother would help with Cameron, and Marcus would find other women to console him. He had refused to divorce her, but he couldn’t stand the sight of her and Bernie did not blame him.


	2. Chapter 2

She never woke up. Her heart stopped twice, one in the ambulance and once in the ED, and the second time it stopped for good. When the doctor came out of theatre and began “I am so very sorry, but …”, Bernie wailed like a wounded animal. Her legs gave out, and she tried to cling to Marcus but he had taken several steps away from her and she would have fallen if the doctor hadn’t caught her. When she had looked for him, he had gone. She didn’t see him again until the funeral – he had taken Cameron to his parents’ house, and she assumed he had slept there too, for when she’d come back home from the hospital after a night’s pointless and solitary vigil, he wasn’t there. She nearly ended it that night, too. She knew what to take. She went as far as finding the pills and the alcohol. She had one glass of whisky and would have gulped the pills with another when the phone rang. The house phone – no one called on the house phone, specially in the early morning hours. She rose automatically to answer it, and there was no one at the other end. But she didn’t take the pills after all – because it would be too easy. She deserved to suffer. And she went into her daughter’s bedroom, sank to her knees, buried her head in the bedcover which smelt like her daughter, of that cloying scent she usually wore, and wept.

What had hurt the most were the angry red lines on her daughter’s abdomen and forearms – some of them already scars, some of them just faint traces, and a few of them still raw and bleeding. How could she have missed that?  She was unfit to be a mother. The pills had been hers – given by her GP after a bad bout of sciatica - even if the alcohol had been Marcus’.  The ED doctor had told her that Charlotte would have survived if she hadn’t had an undetected heart defect. But she’d had one, and she was dead – dead at thirteen years old. Charlotte had been writing a blog – the everyday life of an anonymous teenager – that’s how Bernie learnt that she had been bullied for several months, that her boyfriend had left her because she was too much of a nerd. That she felt under pressure because her parents wanted her to get good grades. Bernie had had to swallow hard several times at that – she hadn’t thought that she was that demanding, but it was true she and Marcus had insisted on both children being good students. That they didn’t really pay her any attention, except for asking about her classes and her results. And that she was fed up of being the good little girl, and she would do something to get their attention – that had been the last post. It was all her fault.

Working in war zones had been her catharsis. Each time she and her team saved someone, it made the wound a little less raw. She never forgave herself, but she learnt to live with the pain. She did not come back to Cheltenham for two years – she knew her in-laws would take good care of Cameron. Marcus phoned her sometimes and let her speak to her son, and each time her carefully erected defences crumbled and the pain came searing back. When she had finally agreed to come back to spend her two weeks leave with Marcus and Cameron, she had counted the hours until it was over. Marcus had gone to therapy and had apparently come to term with most of his anger. Cameron too had seen someone and he appeared to be a normal moody teenager. Only she still lived with a thorn in her heart. As the years went by, she allowed herself to unbend a little…even going as far as letting Alex into her life. But when she’d been blown back to Holby, she’d been afraid the nightmare would begin all over again. Not that she was one for airing her private life to all and sundry. But the only one who knew about Charlotte had been Alex. When she was asked if she had children, she said she had two – of course she had two. She just never said that one of them wasn’t alive anymore.

Her colleagues were worried about her. After Hanssen’s intervention, Bernie managed to curb her temper but retreated into monosyllabic interactions. She grew visibly paler and thinner. Even Jac seemed to have recovered better than her, and the usually aloof cardio-surgeon sometimes went out of her way to give little signs of support to Bernie, bringing her coffee or just coming to chat about a case. Sometimes Bernie wondered how Serena was faring, and if she would ever come back – she had thought of emailing her to tell her about Jasmine, but she hadn’t. She supposed someone else had – and if no one had, all the better. Serena had earned the right to peace. It wouldn’t have worked anyway – at first she had hoped, but as the weeks had gone by without a sign of life, Bernie had resigned herself to the fact that once again, she had messed up with her love life. She hadn’t been able to commit to Alex – she hadn’t been ready, and Alex had had every right to be mad. So if Serena couldn’t commit to her …well, it was only what she deserved. Some days she thought Serena was the only one she would be able to talk to – she was the only one, after all, who knew what losing a daughter was like. But if Serena was getting on with her life, she had no right to burden her with her own grief, even if losing Jasmine had been like losing Charlotte all over again. When Bernie had seen Jasmine for the first time, the young doctor had been so much like the image she had in her mind of a grown-up Charlotte that the resemblance had punched her in the stomach. Only Charlotte would never have become a doctor – she’d always said she wouldn’t touch her parents’ domain with a bargepole – too much work, not enough free time, too much responsibility.  And now …just as she hadn’t been able to protect Charlotte from playground bullies, she had not been able to protect Jasmine from Serena taking out her grief on her …and she had let her die. She didn’t deserve solace.


	3. Chapter 3

Serena stared at her computer screen – two emails from Holby, none of them the one she had been awaiting. But then, Bernie wouldn’t beg, would she? She would never admit she needed her. At first Serena had needed a complete break from the hospital, and she had not answered the first few texts Bernie had sent her. And when Bernie had given up writing, she had refused to accept she missed her desperately. Even the beauty of the local vineyards wasn’t enough to keep her from thinking about the blonde consultant. Being away helped her slowly come to terms with what had happened, and she tried to make the most of the healing powers of her surroundings, but there was a Bernie-shaped hole in her heart. She had imagined Bernie was getting on fine without her. Living the life of Riley as sole head of the Trauma bay. That was what she wanted to believe, anyway. Because she didn’t want her to suffer – she had no wish to hurt her. She just wanted to find her peace.

The two emails were yelling at her from the screen – they were calling her back to her old life, one she had seriously thought of jettisoning altogether. But Henrik and Ric were calling her to task, both in their own very personal way. Henrik’s mail was stating the facts and testing the waters – would she consider coming back, since it appeared that Ms. Wolfe had taken Jasmine’s death very hard and probably needed a friendly shoulder to lean on. Ric went straight to the point – get yourself back here, girl – we need you, and Bernie misses you – she’s a mess. Should she phone Bernie? No, she wouldn’t find the words – not after months of silence. Maybe she could send an email too …or maybe it was time to go back.

Serena could have flown, but she chose to take the train – several trains, in fact, which even if she had sent most of her things by post was still a backbreaking journey. A bus ride to Aix-en-Provence TGV, then the train to Paris, the Eurostar to London, and the last leg of the journey by Southern railway train to the Midlands, to Holby. When she at least arrived at her house, left empty for several months, she felt chilled to the bone, even though it was summer. The house itself felt huge and empty, and even though she almost went straight to bed, she never slept. She tossed and turned, trying out what she would say to Bernie.

The next morning, armed with two coffees from Pulses, Serena strode into the Trauma bay – as usual, it held more resemblance to a railway station than to a quiet hospital ward, but she immediately spotted her. Bernie was talking to a patient, and Serena saw how tired she looked, how her usually messy but shiny hair had lost some of its lustre, and how her usual ballerina-straight back seemed to bear all the worries in the world. Serena put the coffees on a chair and came nearer.

“Bernie …”

Bernie started, turned and dropped the clipboard she was holding. Putting a hand to her back, she bent down to retrieve it and turned back to her patient, her heart beating wildly. She tried to keep her voice steady as she discussed the results of his angiography. What on earth was Serena doing back? She wasn’t ready …She wasn’t …prepared. She was …annoyed. Flustered. Taken aback. None of these she liked to be. After months of radio silence, how could Serena just drop in on her like that? It wasn’t fair. After giving a few curt orders to the F1 accompanying her on the case and to the nurse, she slowly made her way to where Serena was still standing.

“Serena. Let’s go to the office, shall we?” Not waiting to see if Serena was following her, Bernie strode towards it and sank into her chair. Serena followed her and sat at the desk she used to have. Looking at the exhausted woman who wouldn’t meet her eyes, she felt her heart melt.

“Bernie? Are you angry with me?”

Bernie couldn’t answer that – because she didn’t know, or rather because she did – yes, she was angry, and she had no right to be. Serena had needed space, and she had agreed to give her that space. That was all. But if they wanted a chance at this relationship, some unsaid things would have to be spoken aloud. And she was the one who had to speak them. She opened a drawer of her desk and took out her wallet, from which she extracted a small photograph. She had always refused to have private objects in the office – she had no need for pictures or reminders, but she always carried that one with me. She handed it to Serena without a word.

“Is that Charlotte? I don’t think you’ve shown me that before. She doesn’t look much like Cameron, does she?”

Serena bit her lips to stop herself from blurting: “Why the hell are you showing me that? Do you think somehow your Charlotte will make up for Elinor?” Instead she forced herself to go on: “He’s more like Marcus and she looks more like you – but maybe now she’s changed a bit? Do you have a more recent picture?”  The serious girl in school uniform staring at the camera couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.

Bernie licked her lips and putting her elbows on the desk, she crossed her hands and rested her head on them, staring fixedly at the papers strewn in front of her.

“Yes – this is my daughter, Charlotte. Her last school photo. Two months after it was taken, she … she committed suicide. She was thirteen.”

And then she buried her head in her hands. Serena stared at her for a second or too, aghast, and then she got up and came to hug Bernie. The latter slowly melted into the embrace and soon both Serena’s blouse and Bernie’s hair were wet as the two women dissolved in tears.

Neither of them wanted to go “home”…Bernie’s small flat didn’t feel like home yet and Serena’s house didn’t feel like home anymore. They didn’t need much. After helping themselves to two pairs of scrubs and two hygiene kits from the locker room, they absconded from the hospital and booked into a small hotel in the town centre. After ordering pizza, wine and chocolate mousse from room service, they settled on the small sofa.

“Bernie …I’m so sorry – everything I said to you …I wish I could take them back…

\- You were in pain – you were hurting – you don’t have to apologise. How could you have known? I should have said something then but …

\- No…and I should have written …I’m sorry for that too and…”

Bernie’s lips on Serena stopped her from going further… Neither of them slept very much that night, but strangely enough, they felt very much refreshed in the morning …

 

_"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:_

_A time to be born, a time to die;_

_a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;_

_A time to kill, and a time to heal;_

_a time to break down, and a time to build up;_

_A time to weep, and a time to laugh;_

_a time to mourn, and a time to dance;_

**_Ecclesiastes 3_ **

 


End file.
